Chapter 875: On the Way Home (4)

If a city housed an Imperial Prince’s Manor, then it was only natural—an annual event—that the region’s local power brokers would come to present New Year’s respects.

But if the ones doing it were a major martial sect?

Then the picture inevitably became awkward, and weird.

Imperial princes were potential political enemies of His Majesty.

Martial sects were, in practical terms, armed forces.

And those two joined hands?

No matter how you looked at it, wasn’t that a dangerous picture?

Of course, when you said “martial sects” here, you meant the Nine Great Sects, the Ten Great Families, or some other major force whose name shook an entire province.

A tiny martial academy living off training fees, or a small-time sect that survived on “protection money” in one neighborhood, or a petty group that cornered a single commodity to skim profit—those didn’t even count as “martial sects” in this sense to begin with.

Those small, shoestring operators weren’t living by anything as grand as “officials don’t interfere with martial artists.”

They were closer to the type that linked arms with the local magistrate’s office, slapped each other on the back like sworn brothers, helped each other out, and called it a beautiful world where everybody wins.

In that sense, the Sichuan Tang Clan’s direct line going to the Prince’s Manor to present New Year’s respects could, just by itself, become a big problem.

The Sichuan Tang Clan wasn’t some cute little club of people who liked poison—no, people who liked poison a lot.

It was a great clan that projected its influence over all of Sichuan.

So this was practically the same as shouting, loud and clear, that they were pledging loyalty to the Prince’s Manor.

So then what in the world was the Sichuan Tang Clan thinking, going to present New Year’s respects to the Prince’s Manor—

and what scheme did the Prince’s Manor have, accepting it?

Under Beijing’s already-unfriendly gaze, were they deliberately tossing out something to be seized upon, like:

So what? What are you going to do about it—come take our heads?

Of course, Qing didn’t know the answer!

Not only did she not know the answer—she didn’t even know why it was a problem!

There was nothing going on in her head, because that was exactly who Seomun Cheong was.

If there was an Imperial Prince in the same city, then I guess you’re supposed to go give New Year’s respects, right?

First they entered the Prince’s Manor, and the Tang Clan Lord, Tang Tujuk, and his eldest son, Tang Jincheol, left their seats to present respects on behalf of the Tang Clan.

In the spacious room, Qing was left sitting alone like a dropped pebble.

Qing was a martial artist, but she was also a proud little carpenter who pulled her own weight as a carpenter.

And from a carpenter’s perspective, this wasn’t a guest room—it felt more like the mistress’s inner quarters, even the principal wife’s residence.

First, the placement of the room and how much of the building it occupied said so.

And then there were the decorations you usually only saw in the principal wife’s room—mandarin ducks, twin-joy trees, butterfly patterns, oh, and a phoenix, too?

Seeing the phoenix ornament, she was reminded all over again that this really was a palace.

Since it was a palace... maybe even the guest rooms were built like this for women, too.

“Your Highness, are you inside?”

“Oh, yes. Come in.”

When the door opened, an old woman appeared—aged beautifully and elegant, but with her hair combed back so flawlessly that not a single strand was out of place, giving her a stiff, severe impression.

Amazingly, her identity was the former Wheel-Turning Witch of the previous generation, once a demonic master, and now the top-ranked retainer of Deokmyeon Prince’s Manor—Yeon Pada.

For the record, the current Wheel-Turning Witch was said to be a horrifying slaughterer—

and not only the Wheel-Turning Witch, but also the Minor Water Witch, the Frenzied-Slaughter Witch, the Black-Slaughter Witch, the Violet-Lightning Witch, the Asura Demon Sword, and the Soul-Seizing Demon Adept—

a calamity star who’d crammed in every last terrifying demonic art that would be monstrous even if you had only one of them.

“Your Highness, have you been well?”

“Yeon Pada, it’s been a long time. And ‘Your Highness,’ really—weren’t we not doing that anymore? You don’t have to be so formal.”

“You are still Your Highness. But why are you planning to present New Year’s respects to His Highness the Prince in that appearance?”

“Huh? Is something wrong with it?”

“I expected you would be like this. Children.”

When Yeon Pada clapped her hands twice, women poured in all at once.

Judging by their clothes, they were maidservants from the Prince’s Manor—and each of them held a comb, scented oil, all kinds of powders, brushes, and tools...

Qing’s expression turned a little awkward.

“Uh, do we really need to go as far as makeup—”

“Ahem. Children, attend Her.”

Of course, Qing knew how to do makeup.

No, wait... did she?

Ximen Surin’s teachings—those “Walking the Path of Beauty” lessons—had included makeup technique, so she had learned it, but come to think of it, when was the last time she’d done it herself?

At some point, her teacher had stopped launching precision strikes even when she ran around bare-faced, so maybe she’d just given up.

But makeup was... yeah.

First off, she hated the feeling of having something smeared on her face.

That was, of course, a man’s natural trait.

A man, after washing his face, should be dripping wet like water and then dry quickly, and then—without any oiliness—pat on powder so crisp it makes a snapping sound. (No, that’s not it.)

Sometimes there was even a guy who, claiming he was “avoiding the sun,” would cake himself pale as a corpse—those guys deserved to have their peppers plucked off. (Absolutely not.)

Because that was what a man was.

At this point, it was hard to tell what a “man” even was anymore.

Was a man only qualified to be a man if he abandoned perfectly preventable skin aging just because it was annoying and bothersome?

Of course, all that “man” talk—this “real man” nonsense—was just self-justification, wrapping up your own laziness in fancy paper and calling it a virtue, a perfect specimen of small-mindedness.

But Qing was small-minded to begin with.

She was the very image of brazen double standards—something she could do but nobody else was allowed to do—

and worse, a despicable slaughterer whose sword moved faster than her words!

In front of such a terrifying demonic master, ordinary maidservants from the Prince’s Manor couldn’t keep their heads.

“Eeeek—Your Highness, your skin, oh my gosh, it’s like silk! This is bare-faced, right? My god—how can you be this beautiful?”

“And your hair—seriously—there isn’t a single split, and it’s so fine, but you have so much of it—ugh, I’m so jealous.”

The maidservants, face-to-face with the most likely number-one beauty under the heavens, spilled nonstop flattery.

Servants lived on flattery. They were masters of it—people who made it their life’s purpose to see their master’s lips twitch into a smile.

But in this moment, there wasn’t a single lie in it.

First came shock, then reverence, then a bewildered kind of panic—

and then the flicker of challenge and resolve.

Because the higher a woman’s beauty, the harder makeup became.

If you wanted to be cruel about it, if a woman was homely, you could just powder, dry, powder, dry, powder—repeat forever, slap on a layer of artificial skin, and force a “pretty mask” onto her face.

But with a true beauty, even the slightest excess could damage the base beauty itself.

And yet, that was exactly why it was such a rewarding challenge—

a chance to lift that beauty even higher with a touch that looked like nothing at all,

and also a once-in-a-lifetime chance for the maidservants themselves to raise their makeup skill to the next level.

The maidservants huddled into a circle, whispering fiercely as they exchanged opinions.

“How do we dress this up? We can’t kill even a single strand of this beauty.”

“If we do it clumsily, it might be better to do nothing... should we mute the colors as much as possible?”

“Keep the lip line. Tone down the nose bridge.”

“What about the eyes? Keep them? Soften them? She’s beautiful, but they’re a little sharp—doesn’t it make her look intense?”

Keep it, kill it, keep it, kill it.

If you only caught snippets, you might get confused about whether these were maidservants preparing makeup or butchers plotting treason. It was a terrifying meeting.

And finally, the maidservants all snapped their heads around at once, eyes blazing.

It was only natural—people were dyed by the atmosphere they lived in.

And just as Yeon Pada worried about His Highness the Prince, who had no interest in women even at his age, those servants worried the same way.

“Now, Your Highness, close your eyes for a moment.”

Mm. This was... kind of scary.

But still. If they told her to close them, then she should close them.

A little later.

“Wow, Your Highness, you’re truly beautiful.”

“My god—Xi Shi would cry, and Chang’e would bite her clothes in jealousy!”

The maidservants, noses lifted toward the sky, poured out praise in a full-blown flattery session.

Hearing them, Qing suddenly thought of Sarang and Yeonseo—

cuties who were professional gate guards at the Priestess Order Temple’s front gate, and who would proudly rank among the greatest flatterers under the heavens.

Mm. When it was praise only, all the time, it almost felt... worse.

And yet, still with their noses in the air and their whole bodies practically radiating pride, they carried over a large silver mirror.

Like they’d done this countless times, one maidservant held it as if blocking the reflective surface—then, with a ta-da! flourish, she stepped aside.

And there, in the mirror, was an unfamiliar beauty.

Makeup that looked like it was there and not there had simply added healthy color to skin that was already pale and clean, and the faintly warmed cheeks looked like they held shy excitement.

Eyes that were naturally a little pouty—eyes that honestly looked like they belonged to someone stubborn and disobedient—had softened into something gentle.

With newly drawn brows added to that gaze, it was like... a fragile, sorrow-bearing woman, a kind of bleak loveliness that stirred the urge to protect, like you wanted to hold her without even realizing it.

And yet only the lips were painted red, so below the nose there was this—

a temptress-like feeling, limited strictly to the lower half of the face.

She really was pretty.

Every time she caught a reflection, it made her gasp. Always electrifying. Always new.

Today was newer, more electrifying, and—mm—she couldn’t look away. There was something addictive about it.

The problem was... that this was me.

If I’m pretty, what does that do? You’re the one who needs to be pretty...

As Qing stared into the mirror, she felt it—

intense, sparkling, expectant gazes.

They were looking at Qing with desperate hope.

Qing let out a deep sigh inside.

Yeah. The maidservants needed something to live for, too. Even if she didn’t feel like it, she had to give them a reaction.

Qing opened her mouth with a voice she forced to tremble.

“This is... really... me...?”

Qing’s acting was only good in front of villains, so the line came out stiff and awkward.

But that stiffness made it feel more believable—like she truly couldn’t believe her own changed appearance.

Back in Qing’s original world, this was a common line.

But here in the Central Plains, where popular culture hadn’t developed like that, it was practically the highest compliment there was.

The maidservants silently stamped their feet, some clenched their fists, someone even waved both arms overhead—celebrating their magnificent sense of achievement.

Mm. If you’re happy, that’s enough...

******

Jayu had no reaction at all.

He just looked like a corpse—no, he couldn’t be.

“Um? Hello?”

“H—huh. Ahem.”

Finally, focus came into Jayu’s eyes, which had been drifting somewhere else.

Qing let out a little snicker—an ill-fitting laugh for the innocent, pure makeup she wore.

“So, is the person in front of me the neighborhood idler Jayu, or His Highness the Prince?”

“Ahem. Let’s say I’m Jayu.”

“Then, Jayu—happy new year. Now, hand over the envelope.”

Qing held out her hand boldly, and Jayu made an incredulous face.

“You demand New Year’s money between friends?”

“You must be out of practice because it’s been so long. That’s not the tone you use. And I know you already prepared it, so hand it over peacefully and no blood will be spilled.”

“Hm.”

Of course Jayu had prepared it.

This was, in name at least, a visit to present New Year’s respects to an Imperial Prince—if he sent them away empty-handed, what would happen to the Prince’s Manor’s dignity?

But with Qing demanding it so boldly, he suddenly didn’t want to give it to her.

Qing had a talent for being infuriating.

“Anyway... have you been well?”

“If you’re asking after me, you didn’t contact me once all this time. And if I hadn’t summoned you this time, weren’t you planning not to come at all?”

“I can’t just go banging on the Prince’s Manor gates, and I can’t exactly jump the wall at night, either. If I was staying with the Tang Clan, the pale-faced scholar Jayu could’ve come to find me.”

She’d forgotten completely, yet she said it without shame.

Of course, she didn’t lie and claim she’d known Jayu would do that because of some personal compulsion.

After they traded greetings for a bit—

Suddenly, Jayu’s expression grew serious.

“You... listen, and don’t be shocked.”

“Hm? What is it?”

Jayu hesitated, like he was about to say something very difficult.

Qing didn’t rush him. She waited quietly.

At last, Jayu let out a deep sigh and opened his mouth.

“It will be announced soon, but Princess Yeonsul has entered a marriage alliance. It seems a new chieftain has risen among those Jurchen barbarians. The name was... Nurhaci, I believe? His power doesn’t seem ordinary.”

“Princess Yeonsul has entered a marriage alliance” meant, in simpler words, that she was being sent to marry barbarians.

The phrasing made it sound nice—“marriage”—but in truth, it was an offering and a hostage sent to barbarians who were difficult or troublesome.

A message that said: We’ll take care of her so you won’t feel slighted, so don’t get any ideas—stay quiet.

In other words, she’d simply been sold.

Qing let ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) out a low sound.

“Mmm.”

Pity seeped into Jayu’s face.

But Qing’s “mmm” wasn’t pity.

It was just that she didn’t know what to say.

What is this? Fake Yeonsul is getting married off, I guess.

So what?

Is this something I’m supposed to be shocked by?